Stay
by The Villain A
Summary: An "alternate ending" for SH2. What if Eddie wasn't so far off?


_What's left for me now?_

The sound of that final round is still rippling through the infinite sky, over the lake. The shotgun he still holds limply in his hand. He is alone, all alone, on that roof, up above.

_What's left for me now?_

There can be no forgiveness for him. He sees the heavenly room in his mind's eye now, the miserable, broken face of his beloved. She has nothing to say; the look in her eyes is more than enough. He stands there, hands spread helplessly, trying to form words, but it's no use; no amount of groveling can undo what's been done. No justifications or pleas for leniency, however passionately made, can set things right. He deserves no peace; they both know it.

His footsteps sound on the rooftop as he approaches the edge, and gazes down on that damn foggy abyss. Perhaps not even this one fateful step will save his soul, but it's his only chance.

_It's all that I've got._

And yet his foot pauses in midair.

Why? Damn it all, why? Was he doomed from birth? Is there no chance at happiness for him? No peace? He only wanted to get along, get by…he never wanted trouble. But somehow, the forces of destiny conjured devils to torment him, and when he finally lost his grip, for the briefest of moments, it was written in stone that he would rot in hell forever, on this earth and in the heavens above.

Perhaps he and Eddie were not so different after all.

He feels anger. Hopeless, pitiful, anger mixed with despair. If only he could push that pathetic, simpering anger beyond those boundaries. Yes. He _wants_ to return to that one moment, no matter how much he shouldn't, because then, in that little window of time, he felt strong. Surely there is no shame in longing for that moment now; after all, there's no hope now, no point in trying to achieve redemption in the minds of the haughty and cruel. Better to laugh and be a sinner, than to cry and be a saint. He wants that moment now, needs it, will kill for it. Will kill…

Could it be that he has found the key to what he craves?

Yes, it must be true.

Is it not so that that unstoppable thing, the thing that could not die except by its own hand, was born from him? The power must have lain somewhere inside, unconscious of it though he may have been.

Maybe he can retrieve what was lost.

The surfacing thought gives him a confidence, a confidence and righteous fire he has never known before. Having long withdrawn his foot, he turns and approaches the stairs on the far side of the roof.

In the room at the core of his dungeon, two figures stand motionless, impaled. The door opens, and he walks softly to where they rest. They are him, and he is them. He is incomplete, and in them lies the missing pieces to his being.

Laying his hands upon the great heads of these figures, he seeks to make himself whole again.

Room 312. He rests in the chair, arms draped, head bowed in ritual. The blank screen sits in front of him; the remains of that cursed object, destroyed by him, are at his feet.

He feels warm.

Wisdom, a sense of belonging, fills him. At long last, he has come home. Power seeps from his core, through his arms, his legs, his feet. The hands he once raised helplessly are capable of encircling throats. Vise-like fingers crush his tormenters into dust. His green eyes gleam with understanding, a sense of purpose, a new path to follow.

He stares at the shotgun, placed on the floor. Out of all his weapons, it is his most trusted, never leaving his sight.

For the first time since he doesn't remember when, a genuine smile spreads across his lips.

There is a figure stalking the streets of the town, his silhouette visible through the fog. His clothes are worn, his face is pale, his eyes are aflame. Claps of thunder ring in the alleys and off the roofs of buildings. Frantic screams pierce the silence, and little puddles of blood color the concrete. Every time he pulls the trigger, every time his hand grazes the smooth barrel, every time his gaze settles upon a frantic target, he reaffirms his strength.

They fear him; he is the dreaded. He walks with impunity, wiping out existences on a whim.

For the moment, no one like his past self is here. But they will come. They always do. The town's silent, siren call cannot be resisted, he knows. When they come, he will watch them, and if he wishes to find them, he will. They will know who he is; he will allow them to look deep into his emerald eyes before he snuffs out their pitiful lives, lives as pointless and condemned as the one his past self endured before he found the truth.

And if _they_ wish to find _him_, they need look no further than Room 312 of the Lakeview Hotel. His special place.


End file.
